Still Hurting
by Bizzy
Summary: Brigadier General Roy Mustang and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye have worked together for the majority of their military careers. What does it take for them to realize that maybe their relationship isn't strictly the protector and the protected?
1. Chapter One

_Still Hurting_

**Author's Note**: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. It would be really neat though, if I did. I do, however, own quite a few textbooks for my college courses.

This piece will be centering around **Roy Mustang** and **Riza Hawkeye.** It **does** contain **anime**, **movie** and **manga** spoilers. _Yes_, I know that this may not make too much sense. I plucked one thing from the manga, to use as a part of their character, because the impact it had made so much sense.

That is all. Enjoy! And please **read and review**; I know the ending is slightly more abrupt than I would have liked it, but I didn't want to continue rambling on if nobody wanted to read it. If I find the inspiration to write more, and perhaps get enough comments on the piece, I might continue. I would like constructive criticism if you find something to say—I've never written FMA fic, even less a Royai fic, so…here goes anyway. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter One: _

"Colonel?"

The voice echoed over what should've been a battlefield screaming in agony over the spilled blood. Archer was face-first in a large puddle of blood, the crimson fluid leaving a trail headed for the Lieutenant's shoes. She was oblivious to the fact, one hand pressed against her shoulder as she broke into a run. She could hear herself screaming at him, over and over again shouting _Colonel! Colonel!_ Then, she progressed to Mustang.

Finally, with the most upsetting tone of voice, she could hear herself curse.

"Damnit, Roy Mustang!" Her voice cracked as she sank to the ground next to his still body, disregarding the child. Both hands were pressed against his still form, and she was shaking him. Blonde hair was matted against her head, perspiration slipping down the back of her neck to match the tears streaming down her cheeks. He was still warm.

"Don't give up on me now, Roy," she murmured, pressing her forehead against his still form, her body collapsing into sobs. "Don't do this. Please."

He didn't respond to her touch, nor did he respond to her anguished cries. He remained perfectly still, and her hand fumbled around his wrist in desperate search for his pulse. Through clouded eyes, she attempted to see if he was breathing and failed. Faintly, she could feel this steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the throbbing in his veins, and she exhaled a minimal sigh of relief. Deep brown eyes stared at his form, and all she wanted to do was beg him to open his eyes for her, _please, damnit Roy, open your eyes_.

"Lieutenant!"

The woman turned at the sudden noise, and froze instinctively. Her palms were bloody but she lifted them to wipe at her face, to remove the tears. It was Havoc and Fuery, Armstrong in tow behind them.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye! Colonel Mustang!"

Hawkeye's left hand had moved to her gun in self defense when she realized it was Fuery who was running towards her at what appeared to be breakneck speed. He skidded to a stop beside her after stumbling up the stairs. Armstrong was directly behind him, and the sparkle fell from his eyes as he saw the two of them on the ground in front of Bradley's house.

"Riza," Armstrong said quietly, his voice gentle as he started to grab her arm, gesturing to Fuery to take over this task as the muscular man went to gather up the Colonel from the ground.

"Let go of me!" Riza immediately shouted, though her voice wavered through each word. Fuery, smaller and clearly uncomfortable with his hands wrapped around his superior officer's arm, tried to console the inconsolable.

"F…First Lieutenant Hawkeye, Colonel Mustang is going to be all right, but we need to get out of here." Fuery's voice was level yet, as per usual, his eyes betrayed his demeanor. The panic flitted across them every time his gaze left Riza's face. "There's an ambulance on it's way. As soon as we got word of this plan moving forward, we headed this way. We need to get Colonel Mustang to the hospital. You too," Fuery added instinctively as he felt her jerk away from the hand he had tightened on her arm. He could feel the stickiness of blood, and realized that she was injured as well.

There was some sort of mobile medical unit running towards them. One was carrying a bag, the other pushing along a stretcher that bobbed with every cobblestone on the path. The one with the bag looked desperately at Armstrong, who, with ease, lifted Roy off of the ground and gently deposited him on the stretcher.

"You may follow," the medic spat at Fuery, Havoc and Armstrong. "We'll take care of these two on the way to the hospital."

With that, Riza yanked her arm from Fuery, who stood, puzzled, next to his superior officers. The three of them watched as Riza wearily followed behind the medic with the bag, limping the whole way.

"Sir?"

Fuery was staring determinately at the ground, as though he was desperate to avoid conflict with his upcoming comment.

"Yes, Fuery?" Armstrong was the first to respond; Havoc had since been standing in silence, out of respect or fear for his friends.

"I'm worried about the Lieutenant."

"She seems to be in fine physical condition, Fuery," Havoc replied dryly, his gaze on the slamming doors of the ambulance.

"Not physically," the youngest added then, his frown deepening. "She was crying, sir. I don't recall ever seeing her cry."

Armstrong frowned, turning just slightly to face the youngest officer. "Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye have known each other for a very long time, Fuery. I would suggest to you that this is a topic you best leave untouched—especially for the time being."

* * *

The drive to the hospital was silent. The medic continuously bobbed around Riza Hawkeye, struggling to get some sort of answers from her. She remained stoic and silent, her face ghastly pale as she stared directly ahead at the other medic caring for Roy. 

"Miss—"

"Lieutenant," she corrected stiffly, her brown eyes expressionless as she stared at Roy. Her gaze was blank, and her fingers twitched slightly as she tried to remain still.

"I apologize, Lieutenant," the medic offered, "please tell me what happened."

The woman gritted her teeth; the man would've sworn he could hear the painful chattering of bone against bone as she considered her answer. "I do not know."

"How can you not know? You have this man's blood all over you but you sit here saying you don't know?"

"I arrived after he was injured fighting Fürher King Bradley."

The medic fell silent. After a few moments of quietness in the back of the ambulance, he spoke up again.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir?" she asked, her calculated military demeanor slowly returning to her as she sat.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, the injuries I have sustained will heal—"

"I'm a medic, Lieutenant. I don't need you to inform me that the injury on your shoulder will eventually heal. I was asking about…_you_." The medic was attempting to sound calm as he stared into the icy-faced gaze of the Lieutenant.

"I…" she paused, her voice cracking as she searched for the words to place to her answer. With an almost knowing smile, the medic nodded, placing one hand on hers.

"We're going to take good care of him, Lieutenant Hawkeye. You can take my word on it."

* * *

There she was. 

Sitting in the waiting room; Armstrong was surprised she hadn't fought her way into Roy's hospital room to keep sufficient tabs on her superior officer. He took note of her disheveled state, and sighed. More of her blonde hair was out of the clip than in, the strands plastered against her skin as she sat in silence. Both hands were folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white with the tension she used to hold them together—even still, Armstrong noticed the slightest trembling of them. He nodded slightly, as if realizing then that her tight grip on her hands was just an attempt to keep them steady. Steady hands, he recalled her once saying, could keep many people alive.

The man took a seat beside her, looking down anxiously at her pallid face. "Riza?" he asked quietly, trying to say something—anything—to grasp her attention.

"The medics said that they'll take good care of him, Major Armstrong."

Armstrong sighed heavily, wishing he could persuade her to drop the formalities. But he did know her from years of working with her—and he knew that she found comfort in hiding behind the military formalities. Even off duty, just as she carried at least one weapon on her person at all times, she retained some form of formality even if it was simply sir.

"Have they come to say anything about his current condition?"

"No." Her reply was short, and her amber-toned eyes were immediately back on the tiled floor. She had resigned herself to drumming her fingertips on her knee when she jumped to her feet. Crossing the room, she searched for a suitable newspaper. They were all talking about what had happened to Furher President Bradley. What had happened to Colonel Mustang. The chain of events; what could be shared with the public. Her instinctive reaction was to shove the newspapers to the floor. But with a disgruntled sigh, she realized it was highly unprofessional for her to do such a thing, and she stooped down to pick them up and pile them neatly on top of the small table—face down, so the headlines were not visible.

Armstrong shook his head just slightly, folding his arms. "Have they taken care of your arm yet, Lieutenant?" He too resigned himself to giving into the fact that she would not willingly respond to his kindness; it was a reality he had long since accepted. The woman had played with fire at some point in her life, and she had been burned—something about the lack of military pretenses unnerved her. He was fully aware of this, and did his best to remain in her comfort zone.

"Yes, sir," she replied stiffly. The pretense of calmness did little to convince him, and he got to his feet. One large hand gently rested on her shoulder.

"Lieutenant, please. You aren't going to make it through the night if you don't try to calm yourself down."

The woman turned her head slightly, blond hair obscuring the very least amount of facial reading he could have done. She stretched her shoulder blade, her silent way of getting his palm off of her, and took a half step forward, only to reclaim her personal space.

"Excuse me? Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

She spun on her heel so quickly that it startled Armstrong, who had seen her reaction coming. "Yes?"

"You came with Colonel Mustang, correct?"

"Yes."

The doctor's voice lowered, and he nodded to her slightly. "I would appreciate it if you came with me."

Armstrong walked right behind her. He didn't find it fitting to send her into such a meeting by herself, and therefore deigned himself a perfect companion for the revelation of what could easily be very bad news. As they tracked down the hall, he would offer the Lieutenant a cursory glance, puzzled. Her gaze was fixed, as though she was hardly aware of where she was walking. As they passed the lights of the hospital, he could still see the tracks of tears on her face illuminated by the eerie white glow.

"In here, if you would, Lieutenant, Major," the doctor offered, opening the door to a small office. Inside, each member of the party took a seat, the two officers staring the doctor with hope hidden in their tired gazes.

"His condition is stable," the doctor offered finally. "His eye has been destroyed. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, for that there was nothing we could do."

Her gaze darkened, eyes focused steadily on the floor.

"As I'm sure you know, he lost a lot of blood. We're trying to replenish his fluids so he doesn't become sick from that. Everything has been bandaged up. If you'd like, you may go see him, though I would suggest not staying too long. He's in the room all the way down the hall, to the right side."

The doctor was about to add something along to lines of caring for her own injury when he felt a rush of air push past him, and looked up to see Hawkeye almost running out of the door, though her steps were slightly uneven. She slid to an uncoordinated stop at the door to Mustang's room, and then stepped inside, quietly, without a single glance back to the healthcare practitioner or Armstrong.

There he was.

She hadn't taken the necessary time to brace herself for what she was about to see. His entire frame looked as though it could pass for a corpse if it wasn't still breathing and retained some warmth. Freezing in the doorway, she bit her lip before taking a few steps forward, finally taking a seat at his bedside.

His pale face was covered in small beads of sweat, and she dug through her pocket until she managed to produce a handkerchief, carefully dabbing the moisture away. Dark eyes brimmed with tears, but she shook them away in an attempt to regain what composure she had left. One hand gently ran over his, her gaze traveling to the transmutation circle he had drawn there in his own blood. She stood, dipping the same washcloth into water, and returning to his side, gently rubbing away the circle with the utmost of care.

The cuts were bandaged up, though she couldn't determine whether she felt that he appeared better than he had, or worse. Bandages and hospital gowns tended to make people look far more ill than they actually were, no matter how one went about approaching the concept.

Hawkeye frowned, swallowing thickly as she adjusted the blankets once and then twice, if only for something to busy her hands with. Situated in the seat again, she took his hand in both of hers, cupping it gingerly as she ran her fingertips soothingly under his palm.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Your plan was perfect, Roy…I didn't get there in time. This…is my fault." The defeated woman sank forward, her forehead soon resting against the edge of the bed, where the tears came effortlessly, and her exhausted body fell into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two:_

The doctor came into Colonel Mustang's room at promptly 0800 hours, as he had done every day for the past seven days. He cast only a cursory glance to the shadowed figure slumped in a chair in the corner, tucked under a blanket that she had obviously not put there herself. With the smallest of sighs, he shook his head and then proceeded with his morning check on Mustang's health.

Satisfied with this, he turned to Lieutenant Hawkeye, who was, as she had been for the past seven days, sleeping in a wood-backed chair, looking to be quite uncomfortable. As he approached her to wake her, he found himself wondering which nurse delivered last night's blanket. The woman had a tendency to nod off in the early hours of the morning and simply forget to cover herself to prevent a chill from catching her.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," the doctor whispered, his hand on her shoulder as he gently shook her. "It's 0800 hours, Lieutenant. You need to go home and get some rest. I will call security if you don't leave of your own accord."

She stirred, and, after his mention of _security_, snapped to attention, tired eyes surveying the doctor with a sigh. "Good morning," she asked quietly. "What time was it, you said?"

"0800 hours, Lieutenant. Go home. Get some sleep. I've told you countless times, if anything happens at all, we'll call you. Can't you take my word on that?"

Hawkeye yawned slightly, "I'm afraid I cannot, sir."

"You need to go home. Get a good eight hours of sleep, Lieutenant, take some time to have a proper shower, a good meal in, some sleep. I don't want to see you in this building any earlier than 1700 hours this evening. Am I clear?"

She frowned.

"I will alert the security staff and the nurses, Lieutenant. I suggest you just go along with my offer. Now go home."

"I…"

"Don't be so difficult, Lieutenant!" the doctor snapped, taking the blanket from her shoulders. "Every day for the past four days, I've told you to go home. I had a feeling you might be difficult, so I've called one of your officers to come and assist me in getting you out of here."

Hawkeye's amber eyes widened, as she got to her feet slowly, visibly wincing as she tried to get to her feet properly. "Wha—"

"Good morning, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Fuery's voice was level as he stood somewhat nervously in the doorway. "The doctor called me late last night, and asked me to come to escort you home this morning."

"Sergeant Major Fuery, go home," Hawkeye's voice was stern, her gaze narrowing.

Fuery sighed, as if he had heard this coming. "Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant?"

The doctor watched nervously. Perhaps he should have telephoned that Major Armstrong, she seemed to listen to him.

"Denied, Sergeant."

The young man visibly cringed. "The doctor ordered me to escort you home, Lieutenant. Please?"

Hawkeye could feel the edges of her mouth turn upwards just slightly. He wanted to be helpful and she had to give him that, Kain's heart was consistently in the right place no matter how he attempted to portray it. "Besides, I'd like to actually _pet_ Black Hayate some, instead of just talking to him through your door. He doesn't seem to appreciate that."

* * *

"What…?"

The doctor was standing directly to his patient's left, and nodded. "It's about time, sir."

Mustang was opening his good eye, trying to take in his surroundings. "I can't…"

"I know," the doctor said slowly, "the vision in your left eyes is nonexistent. I've already tried to explain to Lieutenant Hawkeye; from what she told me, Archer managed to hit you in the eye. It destroyed everything there. At this point, I just consider you lucky for that bullet not traveling further into your skull."

The man fell silent

"I also consider you fairly lucky as most of your wounds were fairly superficial. Many of them didn't require more than bandaging—though that didn't cover all of them as I'm sure you can tell, it was enough to keep your alive. That and perhaps your constant companion—"

"Is Lieutenant Hawkeye all right?"

The doctor tilted his head, the smallest smirk on his face. "Oh, Lieutenant Hawkeye? I just sent her home. She's been here nonstop for a week, said she couldn't trust me to call her if anything happened here."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"She's fine. I called Sergeant Major Fuery to take her home and make sure she stayed there and got some proper rest. I've told her not to come back until 1700 hours. So you can expect her in a while, I'm certain she'll be back. I'm surprised Sergeant Fuery didn't have to drag her."

Mustang could feel the slightest bit of a smirk cross his face, "so am I."

* * *

"Good morning Brigadier General, Lieutenant."

The hospital room was quiet as always, another three days had passed, and Mustang was following a far more normal sleeping pattern. He spent most of his days awake, and most of his nights asleep. Hawkeye remained by his bedside the entire time, though now Mustang himself played a part in sending her home at the end of the day.

He found himself transfixed by her form when she wasn't hidden beneath that uniform. How smartly she dressed, how professional she remained even on days off. He found himself puzzled by the fact that she went to the effort to make herself presentable when her daily endeavors consisted of walking to and from this hospital building, and nothing more.

"I have some good news for you, if you're both awake enough to listen," the doctor remarked brightly, a chart in tow. "I have something you've been waiting for, General. Discharge papers."

The woman's face brightened just slightly, as she turned to Mustang, the grin contagious.

"Now don't get too excited yet. You're in no condition to be staying by yourself, sir. I'm going to have to look into finding a nurse to take care of you in your home, if that's all right with you."

Mustang's excitement immediately dissipated at the thought of having one of the hospital's nurses checking up on him daily in the same manner they did here—barging in when they could, unconcerned about what they were disturbing. He didn't mind them and quite frankly, some were quite friendly. But he didn't want to take any of them _home with him_, so to speak.

"I would be honored to take care of the Brigadier General, sir." Dark eyes were looking directly at the doctor. "If you would show to me how I'm to handle his care properly, I would have no personal hindrances with taking care of him myself."

Mustang turned just slightly, surprised. The determination on her face was not far from her usual demeanor, and though he wasn't so much surprised about her offer, it was the simple way she had said it. Hawkeye had sworn to protect him, and for these past few days he had watched her go through silent states of retribution. He could tell by the grim look in her amber eyes that she was thoroughly convinced that his current state of being was undeniably her fault.

"That's very kind of you, Lieutenant, however—"

"I'm not a fool, doctor. If you tell me what to do," her voice was level, "then I can take care of him. There's no need to call a nurse to keep tabs on his health when I will be here for him."

_When I will be here for him…_The words shocked him. He became aware of how consistently she was there. By his bedside, when he was unconscious, by his bedside when he was awake. She waited for him patiently, despite the time. The only logical continuation of her behavior would be for her to care for him through his recovery, but something inside of him told him not to expect it.

"Very well, Lieutenant. Once these forms have been filled out, you're welcome to go, we'll call for a car so he doesn't have to walk."

The doctor placed the paperwork on the table, and turned to go, closing the door quietly behind him. Hawkeye was immediately on her feet, dazedly gathering what belongings he had present in the hospital room and placing them into a bag.

"Riza?"

She turned just slightly, her gaze tired. "Yes sir?"

"You don't have to do that," he said quietly. "Tie yourself down to taking care of me. There is no reason to do that to yourself, when you have your own things to accomplish. Your own life to live."

The look on her face was patient as always, the sorrow in her eyes masked by a slight shaking of her head. When will he realize, she wondered, that the only life she had to live rested firmly in the protection of her superior officer—a self-given order she had failed to uphold. "It's no trouble at all, sir. I would be honored."

* * *

The cold bit at his skin, and she offered him her coat. It was far too small for him, but the gesture did not go unnoticed. Eventually, she removed her scarf and wrapped it around his neck carefully. Her reasoning behind such behavior was because she didn't want him to catch cold. He responded by saying what would become of his health if his caretaker fell ill with a chill herself?

Hawkeye was determined to get him into bed, and so she did. She personally removed his coat, hanging it on the rack with hers and the shared scarf, then ushering him to his bedroom.

"Sir," she said quietly, reaching into her bag, "the doctor said I was to change your bandages."

Mustang grimaced. He was not unfamiliar to bandage changing, but that didn't make him enjoy it anymore, and he didn't want her to. Though she had been staying with him for the majority of his hospital stay, she had always been asked to leave the room. The concept of her bearing witness to his inability to bite back his pain unnerved him. "That's all right."

"No sir," she replied quietly, placing the bandages on the nightstand of his bed, along with a bottle of antiseptic the doctor had given her and instructed her on how to use. "I'm sorry, sir."

He turned slightly, slipping off his shoes and sitting on the bed. "Please don't insist upon calling me 'sir'; we aren't at work, Riza."

She was quiet, but nodded, "all right, Roy." Her quiet way of mumbling his name sent a chill down his spine. He considered her behavior in the absence of military formalities, and found himself a bit surprise at how unnerved she seemed.

Her hands were cold, he noted with a shudder as she began to undo the collar of his shirt.

"I can do that, Riza," he said, sleepily. He started to fumble with the buttons, his gaze unfocused.

"It's all right," she said quietly, finally having gotten the buttons undone properly. He groggily assisted her in removing the shirt, though he found his mind wandering as he wondered her perception of his rather sick looking body.

"The doctor said it was easier if you…leaned your arms against something, to help you keep your balance." Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as she opened the cap on the bottle of antiseptic and began to unwind the bandages. The first few layers didn't require a particularly large amount of caution, but as she began to see the crimson of blood, she slowed her movements.

He tensed. Her calloused hands were surprisingly soft, the movement of her fingers agile and yet gentle. He had expected her to be far more likely to yank off the bandage in one swift movement than to do so with such gentle care. Mustang had to bite back more than a few curses in pain as he felt her carefully tugging the layer of bandage closest to his skin. The cool air bit at the open wound, and he gripped the headboard of the bed, gritting his teeth together.

"I'm trying to be quick, sir," she said hurriedly, far more than just aware that she was causing him pain. She had pressed one hand against his shoulder, and he almost let out a holler in pain when he felt the sting of the antiseptic on his wound. "I'm sorry, almost finished..."

But she finished quickly, faster than some of the nurses, now having wrapped the bandage carefully around the open and cleaned wounds. "There you are. I'm so sorry."

He looked up at her, offering her a small smile. She immediately dismissed his kind gesture and got to her feet. "If you don't mind, I'll go find something for you to eat. You should change into your bedclothes."

His remaining eye watched her lithe form head for the doorway, the slight sway in her steps as she proceeded to his kitchen. One of her small hands closed the door behind her. Once completely certain that she didn't intend to come back, he reached for the nearest drawer, pulling out his nightclothes and getting into them carefully. It was an arduous task, he noted silently, and part of him wished that she hadn't been so unnerved by the task of changing his bandages that she would have been willing to help. At the same time, he chided himself for that thought.

She was back within a few moments, and he was still struggling to get the buttons done up right. With a small smile, she placed the basket with the apples in it and the small knife on the nightstand, before helping him get the buttons straight.

"I hope that an apple is all right," she said quietly. "I'll have to go to find something more suitable than an apple tomorrow. I'll bring it when I come."

He nodded slightly, his eye taking in her gentle movement of the blankets, not once but twice as she got them situated in some position that she found suitable. Taking a seat beside the bed, she lifted the apple, carefully sinking the knife into it and starting to peel it.

Mustang watched her in silence, taking in the slight slouch in her shoulders, the smallest frown on her face. For a moment, he just stared blankly, desperate for some way to break the shell that she was consistently hiding behind. Finally, "what's the frown for?"

She paused, looking up from her apple though she never stopped spinning it in her weary hands, "your plan was perfect. You did your part," she paused, hands falling still. "But I should've gotten there sooner to protect you."

He would've sworn he could feel his heart hit the floor, his stomach opening as a dark black pit, wanting to hold her and chastise her for being such a fool—that he was thankful for her arrival at all. "Nothing's perfect," he said gently, hoping to break down her resistance and ease her sorrows. "The world's not perfect—but it's there for us, trying the best it can." Hawkeye's hurt eyes widened just slightly as his fingers gently ran through her golden hair.

"That's what makes it so damn beautiful."

It was silent for a few moments, and he watched her slice a piece of apple in two, sticking it on a fork. Suddenly, it was in his face, her gaze stoical and stiff as a mask once again. "Just shut up and eat."


	3. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three:_

Hawkeye struggled to balance a bag of groceries, Black Hayate's leash, and the key to Mustang's front door all at the same time, trying to get inside before she dropped everything. Black Hayate yapped excitedly, bouncing around her feet in some pathetic attempt at making her life far more difficult. He managed to get his leash completely wrapped around her ankles, and then started to run in the opposite direction.

"Black Hayate, _no_!" she exclaimed before she felt the leash tighten at her feet. "I said no," she repeated desperately, managing to set the bag of groceries down before the excited dog yanked her feet out from under her. Seated on the floor, and clearly frustrated with her little pup, she called him over, and scolded him. "Sit here," she ordered, pointing at him with a glare, "don't you dare move, Hayate." Now free of all of her items, she slid the key into the door, and opened it just slightly, stooping down to pick up the bag and nudging the dog forwards.

"Brigadier General, sir?" she asked quietly, peering around the front room. Hayate bounced around the territory that he was not so accustomed to, barking away merrily as he sniffed every object in his path. "Black Hayate, please, he may still be sleeping," she snapped, crouching down to get her hand wrapped around the dog's muzzle. "Shh."

"Don't worry, he's not sleeping."

Her eyes shot up suddenly, spying him standing in the doorway from his bedroom. He was smirking just slightly, perhaps proud that he had successfully startled her, or just amused by her insistence of keeping the dog quiet when she knew that he didn't mind having Hayate around. "Good morning," she said softly, smiling at him and getting back to her feet after unhooking Hayate's leash.

"Good morning," he replied, walking over to her. He carefully bent down, the process almost precarious as he absentmindedly handed her the cane he had been using for balance. Picking up the groceries, he stood upright, beaming at her. "I'll carry those into the kitchen."

"But, sir…" she started.

He held up a hand to get her to close her mouth. Mustang knew her far too well, he had been waiting for her to protest, and started into the kitchen, not once looking back to see the look of surprise on her features. He had been testing the boundaries of his ability to walk without assistance for days now, whenever she was out getting groceries, tending to things at the office, and most specifically when she went home at the end of the day.

Placing the bag on the counter, he turned to see Hawkeye staring directly at him, a small smile on her pale face, small and just for him, he realized. "When did you start walking about on your own, sir?"

"About a week ago, actually. I just did it when you weren't watching, because, as you just did, I knew you'd hand the cane back to me and insist upon me not being so stubborn." He grinned at her, "being stubborn pays off."

"I suppose it does," she said quietly. "How do you feel today?"

Mustang started to remove things from the bag, noticing how carefully she took care of even his diet, the way she cooked for him. Each food group was present, and she took things to his small table, putting away what wasn't necessary for cooking a proper breakfast. "I feel pretty good. In fact, I'm hoping to go back to the office in a few days."

Hawkeye turned suddenly, "sir, I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

He continued to unpack groceries, though he did cast a sidelong glance in her direction, noting the fact that she sounded just slightly sad, though her voice was level. By now, she had a small handful of vegetables in the sink, washing them clean, not daring to look up at him. She set them on a napkin to dry, and turned back to the ingredients on the counter, freezing when she felt a strong hand wrapped around hers. Mustang tilted her chin upwards.

"I'm as healed as I ever will be, Riza. And, for what must be the hundredth time, don't call me sir." Hayate bounded around Mustang's feet, barking up at him as though in approval of the conversation.

"But, Roy…" she paused, struggling for the proper way to phrase her concerns, and wondering if there really was any way to go about it. "I just...are you sure?"

He smiled at her, his grip tightening around her fingers. "I'm positive. I can't take being in this house all day anymore. Even if it's back to paperwork, it'd be better than doing nothing else all day. To be back to helping the nation; that's what I want to do. I'm fine enough to do it. I won't be using my alchemy."

Hawkeye's fingers stiffened in his hand, and she shook her head. "You what?"

"I…won't use my alchemy anymore. Not for harm. As time wears on, no matter how I approach the situation, I realize that I was just a pawn in their plan. A rebelling, irritable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. I was being used for the higher-ups ultimate goal. Working against the people," his voice dropped slightly, and he released her hand.

"I want you to take this," he declared suddenly, reaching into his pocket. Her eyes widened, as she saw him present her with the gleaming silver pocket watch denoting him as a state alchemist. "Do with it what you please, Riza. I won't hold that title anymore."

"But Roy—you wouldn't…" _It just wouldn't be the same. _"You used your alchemy for good. You defeated the Führer. Protected the Elric brothers," a nervous pause, her gaze cast towards the floor, "saved me, countless times, during the war in Ishbal. It…would be like spending time with a completely different person."

His gaze fell, and he looked to the floor, but shook his head, not swayed by her request.

"My father told me once," she said quietly, closing her eyes and scooping up her bag, gesturing to Hayate, "that when an alchemist stops seeking the truth…" She clipped the leash back to Black Hayate's collar, taking her keys from where she had deposited them on the countertop. "The alchemist within them would die. That…they become a human, who died a long time ago." Her voice was as cold as ice, dripping with frustration; _anger_. She was walking for the door, tugging on the dog's leash, who seemed less than happy to be leaving so soon.

"I don't want that to happen to you, sir."

The door closed slowly behind her, the click just audible above the dog's barking outside.

Mustang almost wished that she had slammed it in his face, screamed at him. Instead of speaking so rationally, so painfully clearly. He wanted a reaction that showed there was more going on than what he could take at face value, because he knew there was. There had to be.

* * *

The office was painfully quiet. Sergeant Major Fuery was buried in some paperwork, though he kept stealing glances at the Brigadier General, who was currently assembling a box. He found himself wondering what his superior officer was doing. It was almost strange to have them both back in the office, Fuery noted quietly. Though she had been coming in and out several times in the day while Mustang was on leave, it was different without her. When she was working full time again, just a day or so before Mustang's return, she was, for all intents and purposes, silent unless absolutely necessary.

Upon his return, Fuery had noticed, she worked silently at her desk. She never once looked up to scold someone for slacking off. She ignored her inferior officer's gambling, and never once made comments on their inability to behave like adults. And though that may have been a welcomed change, he couldn't help but find it strange. Besides that, she continuously slid her hand into her left pocket, as if checking for the presence of something—over and over again. And every time her fingers met with whatever it was she was looking for, her gaze darkened, and she bowed her head into her work once again.

"I intend to leave," was all Mustang had said as he stuffed papers into a box. His entire concentration was focused on the task before him, and though his officers had been watching him pack for the past hour, he knew the revelation was likely a shock to them. "I've asked to be relocated."

"But sir?" Havoc asked, his voice tight and shocked as blonde-haired man tried to comprehend what Mustang was explaining to them. Fuery was on his feet, standing nervously behind Havoc, his gaze shielded through thick glasses as he stared at Mustang, his hands folded in front of him. The young man's face had fallen flat, but he did his best to remain silent. Was this why the Lieutenant had been so quiet? Breda was fumbling with the papers at his desk, but his focus was clearly on the Brigadier General as he blindly knocked three pens and two folders of work off to his immediate right, ignoring the clatter the pens caused as they hit the floor. It was only Lieutenant Hawkeye who managed to remain straight-faced throughout Brigadier General's brief explanation for leaving. In fact, Fuery noticed silently, she didn't even look up from her work.

And it was only two days later when the whole lot of Mustang's subordinates stood at the train station, saluting their commanding officer for what could be the last time. Mustang stepped onto the train without more than a tense goodbye, and he never turned to look back. If he had, he would have seen several pairs of weary eyes staring at him, or rather where he had just been standing.

The train's whistle blew, and then it pulled away from the station, leaving the men and women standing in its wake. One by one, the handful of officers dismissed themselves, most of them leaving just a few moments after the train.

Riza Hawkeye stood silently, her mouth pressed in a thin line, hands folded tightly in front of her, shoulders trembling just slightly. It was Lieutenant Havoc who lingered behind her, surveying her thin form anxiously, waiting to see if the Lieutenant intended to take her leave any time soon.

Five minutes passed, then ten. At fifteen, Havoc approached her, wary of upsetting the hot-headed Lieutenant when she was clearly upset. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?" he heard himself ask. The woman snapped out of her trance, amber eyes slightly glazed over.

"Yes, Lieutenant Havoc?"

"Are you…planning on leaving soon, ma'am?" Havoc's voice was soft, slowly inching into her personal space. Frowning just slightly, Havoc swallowed, recalling the last order Brigadier General Mustang had given him, _'you take good care of her for me, Havoc'_.

"Not yet."

She had turned her attention back to the abandoned train tracks, gripping her hands tightly to steady them. Havoc glanced to the sky, perhaps in search of a word of advice from something higher up, on how to handle Hawkeye. All he found was the overcast grey of the clouds that seemed to be weighing down on all of their shoulders. As rain began to drop on his head, he winced. He wasn't a fan of rain; Mustang's hatred for the weather had rubbed off on him over the years of working with him. Swallowing thickly, he could feel the rain fall harder against his head and then froze as he heard something not unlike a sob.

Havoc pulled out his umbrella, opening it, and stepping close enough to shield both himself and Hawkeye from the downpour. He could feel her trembling just slightly as she tried to fight back tears. Finally, she reached into her pocket for what might have been the tenth time in the past twenty minutes, and produced a small, glinting silver object. Her eyes were painfully empty when she showed Havoc the silver pocket watch, and he knew suddenly why she had been so silent in the office. If Roy Mustang gave up his State Alchemy pocket watch, then it was clear that he had no intention of using his talents.

He realized then that Mustang had not only just left them all behind—he had also taken a good portion of Hawkeye's heart with him.

* * *

Time passed slowly, Havoc felt. Their office lacked a Colonel, but they had their Lieutenant and she kept things in proper order. He found that work got done faster, that there was never any paperwork left on any of the desks by the time they all went home. In fact, the office ran like clockwork, a state of functioning he was not quite accustomed to.

He also watched their Lieutenant harden. Stiffen. She rarely spoke, and when she did it was only when necessary. Her demeanor had changed entirely. Though once and again Havoc would take notice of her rather impish sense of humor, he saw that it rarely happened now, if ever. She never smiled; those small smiles of amusement she had once offered the Brigadier General were gone. Whatever remained of her personality was gone, and she what she had been presenting herself as for years—a stone-cold, hard-faced military machine—had replaced it.  
As for Brigadier General Mustang, Havoc murmured to himself as he lit the third cigarette he had smoked when he got on the train an hour ago, the man was faring no better than she. She had stiffened up; he had fallen apart. It was clear on Mustang's face, when he and Breda had come to visit his station up North. His inky black eye was devoid of emotion, his shoulders slightly slouched though he appeared to be standing properly upright as any enlisted soldier should. He was gloomy, withdrawn, and sullen. And just as Hawkeye had shown him, it was obvious that Mustang had stopped using his alchemy, particularly when the man tried to light Havoc's cigarette—with a box of matches.

Havoc peered out the window, swallowing the smoke thickly, chewing on the butt of the cigarette, shaking his head. As a team, the worked well. But separated, he found, they functioned—in the loosest definition of the term 'functioned'. It was as though the General had behaved as the Lieutenant's ability to be more than a calculated machine; and it was the Lieutenant who managed to force the General to be more responsible with his work, and get it done.

He felt like their separation had only made things worse. And though he wanted to get off the train immediately, turn right around and go back to Mustang's, only to drag him back to Central, he knew it would be useless. If that man planned, to come back, it would be of his own accord, and no other way.

Breda had suggested bringing the Lieutenant along on their visit, and Havoc immediately declined. The woman was an emotional wall, and he knew that wall was there only so she didn't break down. She wouldn't want to see Mustang suffering like this. They might've crumbled seeing the other in the miserable state they were in. For Havoc, who looked at them both like friends, it broke his heart in two. He had wanted them to be happy, because no matter how much he joked around about their situation, his heart was in the right place. He could only imagine what it would do to them—separated for so long, but in love.


	4. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four:_

"We need people protecting Central Headquarters!"

Hawkeye's order was harsh, and she was grabbing weaponry, handing them off as she sent her officers outside. "There's been another earthquake, and this time it appears that there are enemy soldiers in the area. Do whatever you can to keep them _out_ of this building."

Darting outside, they took their positions, crouching behind makeshift walls of protection, taking careful aim. It was only Hawkeye who never missed, and she was always prepared to keep her officers out of harms way. Each shot was calculated. Every movement she made was calculated. Every movement her officers made was carefully considered before it was carried out. There were few of them, and many of the enemy soldiers.

Quite suddenly, Mustang was back on the field. His deep voice boomed over the chaos of gunshots and panic. He had heard of the earthquakes in Central, and the fact that there was a threat of enemy soldiers entering Amestris from who-knew-where. His officers immediately stood at attention eyes wide with shock, though their salute was paired with wide grins; all spare one. Hawkeye was holding up the other end of the front line. Though she paused in her self-defense to salute him, there was no sparkle in her eye, no smile. All the response he got from her was the most professional.

It was after Mustang had dictated his orders that he got some reaction from _his Lieutenant_. She had the smallest smile on her face, just the slightest smile—just for him, for the fact that he had come back. But before she could say anything to him, he was snapping his fingers to create enough warm air into the balloon Fuery had prepared, headed upwards to assist the Elric brothers.

If nothing had prepared him for seeing Alphonse as a human, as Edward as an adult, then he would be dumbfounded at the happenings down below him.

The army from the other side of the gate had gotten dangerously close to Central Headquarters. So close that Mustang's subordinate officers stared into the cold, metallic faces of their attackers. Above, commotion ensued; below, soldiers fell to their death.

Things moved quickly after that, he noted. The other side of the gate, _this side_ of the gate needed to be sealed. And he would do it himself. Mustang had watched Alphonse jump onto the other portion of the ship—the one Edward was on. In fact, Mustang had given him a gentle shove and released the younger boys shoulders. Somehow, he found relief in the fact that those two would care for each other, as they always had. "Take good care of each other, you two." The words slid from his mouth with surprising ease, and he finally got himself to the ground safely.

His team stood waiting for him, as dutifully as they had for two years. Fuery was surveying the area, Breda was trying to gather spilled ammunition. The others simply stood at attention. Spare his Lieutenant, once again. She still held up the rear of their front line, though she was presently staring blankly at the sky, where himself, Edward and Alphonse had just been.

She hadn't seen him approaching.

One of the few remaining soldiers from the other side was a meter or so away, and then it fired. The first shot was masked in the noisiness of the fields, but the second could've shattered his eardrums; Mustang was certain of it. The third seemed to miss; Hawkeye was swaying too much on her feet for her assailant to take good aim. That, and perhaps the surprisingly well-placed bullet she managed to sent from her pistol before it clattered to the ground.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye!"

His voice cracked as he pushed past the others, trying to get to her before she crumpled to the ground. Not soon enough; he was tripped up by the remaining suits of armor. He could only watch in horror as her blood began to stain the blue uniform jacket a sickening purple; he could only watch as she fell to the ground in a puddle of her own blood.

"Lieutenant!" Mustang was screaming, he was on his feet again and sprinting towards her. Mustang crouched down beside her, wrapping both arms around her lithe frame, easing her torso from the ground, trying to straighten out her abdomen to ease her ragged breathing. Mustang's hands were gently running over her body, searching for the precise location of her injury. It was only when his fingertips met with the stickiness of blood did he remove his gaze from her face to see that whomever had shot his Lieutenant had the same precise aim as she. The bullet hole was just centimeters from her heart, and had likely hit a lung. The second was lodged in her abdomen. He only hoped that this one had missed any organs of vital importance.

"Hawkeye?" Mustang murmured, wanting to pry her eyes open if just to see them again. Her breathing left him on edge, every time she gasped to get a full breath in. Pale eyelids fluttered open just slightly. Amber eyes met his one remaining black one, and then they drooped closed again.

Mustang tightened his jaw, his voice as stern as he could force it, "stay with me, Hawkeye. Open your eyes!" She didn't move, respond to his request, respond to her name. He grimaced, feeling a knot settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Hawkeye…" he started, biting his lip; her breathing was slowing. "God damnit, Riza, that was an _order_!"

* * *

He sat next to her bed. He stood next to her bed. He paced around her small hospital room. Eventually, her attending nurse told him to get out of the room. Mustang resigned himself to pacing the hallways. When the attending nurse threatened to call security, the weary man settled himself in a seat in the waiting room with the rest of his team.

They were pallid. He didn't raise his gaze to meet any of their eyes, and instead grabbed the nearest newspaper. It was talking about the goings-on in Central Headquarters after the strange attack. Towards the bottom of the front page was a brief mention of his return—in an article explaining what had happened to _his Lieutenant_. Brigadier General Mustang snapped his fingers in frustration, tossing the burning paper to the tiled floor. After a moment, all that remained was a small pile of ashes.

* * *

Hawkeye was silent. Once permitted again to sit in her room, Mustang proceeded to set up camp, taking a lackluster position of honor to the immediate right of her bedside. It was a vigil he had been silently holding for days, and with every day that passed, he started to wonder if she would ever wake up. His silent attention was punctuated by visits from their inferior officers and the doctors who claimed to be keeping her alive. They swore up and down about how stubborn their patient was, even unconscious, they claimed, her body seemed to be resistant to all of their attempts to help.

Mustang was losing faith. Three days into the hospital stay, and she was burning with fever. A fourth day passed and she was coughing in her sleep, shivering nonstop. By the fifth day, he couldn't bear it any longer and left the hospital for the first time since he arrived; the sight of _his Lieutenant_ coughing up blood was too much for him to bear.

She woke up at 0300 hours on the sixth day, just a few hours after he had left.

"Where are my officers?" her voice was painfully dry, her attempts at speaking bordering on incomprehensible. "They're all right? All of them? Warrant Officer Falman? Sergeant Major Fuery? Lieutenants Breda and Havoc? Major Armstrong was on the field…"

"Yes, Lieutenant Hawkeye," the doctor repeated for what felt like the hundredth time since he'd walked in to check up on her. "I've told you already, they're all fine."

She was silent.

"I'm not trying to fool you, Lieutenant."

"Brigadier General Mustang?"

The doctor's eyes widened, as did her slightly unfocused amber ones. "You don't remember?" He could see her palms clench beneath the blanket, eyes narrowing in panic.

"He's been here every day, Lieutenant. We almost had to kick him out so he would go get some rest. He only left a few hours ago."

Hawkeye frowned, letting out an audible sigh of relief before her chest tightened and she began coughing. Pain shot through her abdomen, eyes tearing with each more severe cough. One hand was clawing at the sides of the bed, trying to straighten herself up so she could breathe easier. The doctor grimaced but soon had one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on the small of her back to keep her upright through the coughing fit.

"Try to take a deep breath, Lieutenant," the doctor ordered, feeling her frail body quivering beneath his hands. Her head tilted slightly forwards, one hand moving to try and stifle to the cough. To her shock, she pulled her hand away only to see a fistful of blood. Her body immediately stopped retching the moment the blood found its way out of her windpipe. She turned blearily to the doctor, bending forward to try and ease the pain, gasping for breath. He squeezed her shoulder just slightly.

"Relax," he warned, "you do remember being shot?" He watched her blonde head bob up and down, though just slightly. "One bullet hit you in the chest, we think it punctured your lung. You're likely to be coughing for quite a while. The blood is because of the trauma to your torso, so don't panic."

Eventually, the doctor helped ease her back into bed. "You still have a fever. I'm sure you aren't nearly as aware and understanding of what I'm saying as you're pretending to be. Just try and rest, please." He pressed one hand on her forehead, mentally tabulating her temperature. "The restroom is to the left and, if you need anything, just call. Oh," he added, "and Lieutenant? _Stay in bed._"

The weary woman narrowed her eyes, shooting him a glare.

"More than one of your visitors has told me that you will try to get up. I strongly advise against it. I repeat—stay in bed." The doctor turned to leave, shaking his head slightly, ready to go.

"Sir?"

Her voice was almost timid when she spoke, her gaze on the covers. "At…a more decent hour, may I use this phone? I would like to call someone."

The doctor smiled knowingly. "Of course, Lieutenant. He usually drops by your room by 0800 hours. Feel free to phone him whenever you think he'll be awake."

* * *

She fell back to sleep. 1100 hours rolled around, and Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably, moving to reach for the phone. Her entire body ached, but she felt it necessary to call him. A nurse had come in with some sort of medicine, and told Hawkeye that he hadn't dropped by yet, which was rather unusual for him. Worried, she sat wearily upright in bed, one hand supporting her weight, the other dialing the number. She absently listened to the ringing of the phone, and then dropped it into the receiver when he didn't answer.

The woman slid forwards, resting her feet on the floor, shuddering at the chill. Very carefully, she grabbed a hold of the nightstand, using it for support as she stood up. All she wanted to do was wash her hands and face, maybe brush her teeth. She felt filthy, and the bitter metallic taste of blood in her mouth did little to help.

Every step was a stagger as she made her way to the restroom. It was like some formal military march, she noted, when she almost stumbled into the sink, grasping the edges tightly for support and breathing heavily from the effort of staying on her feet. Amber eyes peered into her reflection, and she grimaced. Her face was a sickly, sallow color, cheeks slightly sunken in, her frame having lost much of its weight over her hospital stay. She realized she had no idea how long she had been here.

Mustang approached her room slowly, having not bothered to stop by the nurses' station on the way, somehow already convinced that she would still be in the same rotten condition she was in the night before upon his arrival. When he stepped into the small room, he paused, puzzled—almost panicked. Where was she? He stepped further in, peering into the open door of the restroom. There she was, hands gripping the edges of the sink, staring at the mirror.

Feeling as though he was intruding upon something, he turned to leave his feverish Lieutenant for the time being when he heard her begin to cough. His head immediately snapped to the left, staring at her, concerned. She removed one hand, covering her mouth, her entire body racked with coughs. Each grew successively more violent, until her remaining hand on the sink released, her knees giving out beneath her. She let out a startled gasp somewhere between coughs, the hand covering her mouth scrambling to get a grip on the sink. His stomach lurched as he saw that her touch left a palm print of blood where the sink had been touched, but he ran over to her.

"Riza!" he exclaimed, crouching down on the floor next to her, putting an arm protectively around her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Her instinctive response was to grab onto his shoulder, and she did, still trying to steady herself even on the floor. "I…I'm all right, sir," she murmured, her grip on his shoulder tightening.

"We aren't in the office, Riza, please…" he paused, sliding one hand beneath her arms, the other hand on her waist. "You should be in bed…come on, I'll help you." Her coughing had slowed down considerably, he noted, smiling to himself just slightly. Roy started to help her back to her feet, feeling her rest a good portion of her weight against him. In silence, he mused about how _right_ it felt, doing his best to be of some use to her; even more so the fact that she didn't fight him. Her lithe frame seemed to fit so properly against his chest as the two of them made their way back to the hospital bed…

Roy eased her back into the bed, careful to make sure she was settled just right before pulling up a chair. Relief was present in his remaining eye, his gaze almost uncharacteristically soft. "When did you wake?"

"Sometime this morning," she replied softly. "It was still dark."

"How do you feel?" he leaned forward slightly, his concern ever-present despite attempts to keep it hidden.

"All right," she mumbled. "Tired."

For a long while, it was silent. Roy stared at the slow rise and fall of her chest, her eyes were closed. The stillness she held convinced him that she was fast asleep.

"Roy?"

The man turned, startled to hear his name come from her mouth. To hear that her usual tone of authority was gone, replaced with a twinge of nerves he was unused to.

"Hm?" he turned slightly, smiling at her until he became fully aware of the fact that he face was completely devoid of a smile.

After an awkward pause, one of her hands fumbled for his. He took it, feeling the feverish heat radiating from her. "Why…why did you leave, sir?" Her hand was trembling, and she gripped it tighter. "I…I know you were waiting for Edward. But…what I don't understand is how you didn't…know that…you had all of us here, sir. Doing the exact same thing—waiting. That…you just turned your back on us…left _us_…feeling the same way you felt about that child." Her weary voice was wavering. "They…all gave up, Roy," she cried, tears streaming slowly down her cheeks. "B-but I was still waiting. Just…just waiting and waiting. I didn't want to give up, Roy—not if you still might come back. Not if there…was any chance left at all…"

Roy watched her, listened to her distressed she was. The tears had turned the rims of her eyes red, her hands trembling. He kept his hand in hers, and used his other hand to produce a handkerchief, offering it to her somewhat nervously.

She grabbed the handkerchief, staring at it blankly instead of dabbing at her eyes, before breathing a heavy sigh. "You…just left, Roy. Why did you have to just…_leave_? Never even leave a way to find you. Don't you….don't you know…"

He froze, leaning closer to her, his free hand resting on her cheek, thumb wiping away her continued tears. "Riza, I…"

"What?" she exclaimed suddenly, tears replaced by sobs. "You what? Roy…don't you realize what you did to them?" She paused wearily. "What you did to…me?"

Carefully, he leaned closer to her still, pressing an arm around her shoulder, getting to his feet and pulling her into an embrace. Her shoulders were trembling violently, entire form consumed by sobs. Roy pressed her head against his shoulder, his fingers gently running through her hair. He had to bite his lip, hard, to still the trembling of it, easing into the embrace. "Riza," he said softly into her ear, looking down at the top of her head. "I'm so sorry…"

This was not what she seemed to be expecting, as she only began to cry harder, burrowing her head into his shoulder. "But…you came back," she sobbed against his shoulder, her response muffled and hardly intelligible. "You…you did come back, right?" The question in her voice unnerved him.

Was she that feverish, that she thought she might be imagining his presence? Even more so, he found himself wondering if she had imagined his return on other occasions. "Of course I came back. I'm right here, Riza," he murmured. "I'm not leaving."  
She froze, "do you promise? You won't just…just turn and go?" Riza paused, the hand caught between their two bodies clutching his shirt, her grip tight. "That if you do go…you won't leave me?"

Roy found himself puzzled. Shocked. His heart began to race at her desperate plea, the simple fact that she was begging. She was _begging _him. "I won't leave you. I promise that. I won't leave."


	5. Chapter Five

_Chapter Five:_

The doctor had come in shortly thereafter, saying he had heard some sort of thudding, and then crying. By then, Riza wasn't sobbing anymore, but she was still rather clearly upset. His solution to her clear distress was to get her to sleep, and so he did. Some medication later, with Riza now fast asleep, the doctor turned to Roy, concern on his face.

"She still has a very high fever," he said quietly. "If she said something upsetting, I would suggest you not take it to heart. She talks, but I doubt she's fully aware of what she says. At some point, delirium sets in."

Roy shook his head, "no. She was making perfect sense."

Tilting his head just slightly, the doctor smirked—that same knowing look he had given his patient at 0300 hours that very morning. "Would you like to know something, Brigadier General?"

"Hm?"

"I remember you," the doctor stated quietly. "Clearly, at that. It was the same situation, I can see it mirrored in how you treat each other. Behave around one another. Do you know she was at your bedside every day? We had to threaten to call security to get her to go home. In fact, to get her out of the hospital to go rest, I told her that she would not be permitted back into the hospital until 1700 hours, which ensured she had time to get a good eight hours of sleep, a shower, and the first decent meal in a week."

"Did she leave?"

"I didn't give her much of a choice. I'm sure you know her well, as her superior officer. She's one of the most stubborn people I have ever met. If I didn't tell her she wouldn't be permitted back, she wouldn't have left." The doctor paused, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning for the door. "She was worried sick about you, Brigadier General. Not so much unlike your behavior towards her now. It's honorable behavior, sir. And it also says quite a bit about your _relationship_."

* * *

"Now Lieutenant," the doctor was standing patiently by her bed, his gaze stern. It had been another day or so, and the woman was borderline stir-crazy. He found himself wanting to smile at the simple nature of the fact that she couldn't stand being in one place for so long, chained down. No wonder the Brigadier General seemed to be so attracted to her—it was something the doctor had noticed upon their first visit to the hospital.

To him, it was crystal clear. They would stare, oh for _Heaven's sake_ would they stare. She sat by his bedside that first time around, silent, her mouth set in a thin line, completely devoid of emotion—spare her eyes. Those eyes, he had learned over time, were the only way to read that woman's expression. The sorrow, the worry, the anxiety were omnipresent during Mustang's first week in the hospital. When Mustang woke, the doctor saw something new in that gaze. Affection, compassion, _desperation_. Mustang was no different, though it was far more his body language. He sat silently by her bed, hands folded tightly in his lap for the first day or so. Three days in, and he would straighten her pillow, or fuss with the blanket. When she was sweating as a result of the fever, he wiped it away. And, just as she had, his demeanor changed entirely when she was awake once again. He was desperate for her touch, the doctor had noticed, even if it was just grazing fingertips. He insisted upon helping her. And he saw that man's inky black eye follow her form wherever she went, even if it was just to the restroom.

"I think you will be happy to know that I can let you go home today."

Her amber eyes immediately shot up from the book she was attempting to read, "really?" There was no joke in her tone of voice, just curiosity. As though she didn't even believe him.

"Yes, really. Brigadier General Mustang said he would come to pick you up. And he's already made a point of declaring that he would be honored to keep you in good health while you continue to recover."

"Please tell him that isn't necessary," Hawkeye replied quietly. "I'm capable of getting myself home."

"No, Lieutenant. You are not. And unless you would like a nurse to visit you at least twice a day to try and dislodge the buildup of fluid in your chest, then I'd suggest you take his offer. You're in no condition to get yourself home, and you are in far less a condition to keep yourself in proper health."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of—" her voice cut off, the coughing sending her reeling backwards, using her left arm to brace herself upright. It was spasmodic, the way she choked on nothing, it caused little spots to appear before her eyes. She always ended up rather dizzy.

The doctor audibly clicked his tongue and walked over to her, "I believe you've just displayed that you cannot." He reached over and handed her a small handkerchief, which was faintly stained a brownish red color. She removed her hand and held the cloth to her mouth, well aware of the reality that the doctor presented her.

"He's going to be here shortly," the doctor said finally, watching her drop the handkerchief into the garbage pail, where it seemed a decent bit of them were collecting. "I would say it's in your best interest to be ready when he arrives."

* * *

Riza was sitting in a chair opposite her bed, with a small package of handkerchiefs in her hand. The doctor had warned her to wash them thoroughly. He had also said that if her coughing didn't improve to please call him, as coughing up blood consistently for several days in a row was not a sign of good health.

"Riza."

Roy walked into the room, smiling at her tiredly. She got to her feet, though slightly hunched over. "Good morning," he declared brightly, wrapping one hand around her waist. He was acutely aware of her frailty; it was her who ignored it.

"Good morning, Roy," she replied softly, dropping the things the doctor had given her into her bag. Her eyes widened slightly when he took it from her, but she did little by means of protesting.

"I'm hoping you're ready to get going," Roy said gently. "It's cold, and it looks as though it might rain."

Her smile was small, just enough for him to see. He grinned, leading her towards the door. Her steps were shakier than he remembered, and somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he hated to see her like that. Riza never faltered, she never shook. She was steady as a rock, and it was something Roy found he had come to rely on. When things were bad, all he had to do was steal a look at his consistently level-headed Lieutenant, and he was reassured. But now, he was aware of the fact that she may be doing that same thing to him. Looking for the solidity that she was currently lacking. He swallowed, wondering if he would be able to provide it for her.

The moment they took a step outdoors, she froze, shivering. Roy peered at her slightly, and then pulled her closer, tugging at the edges of his coat. "Come here," he said quietly, as he slid her around the edges of his coat and then tucked her behind them. He could see the flush forming on her cheeks, and found himself wondering if it was from the cold or the action, or perhaps a small mixture of both. But after a moment, she eased into the warmth, one hand holding to the edge of his coat.

"I don't want you to catch cold. Besides," he paused, as though he were slowly testing the boundaries between them. What boundaries remained, what boundaries had been eliminated. "You'll be warmer this way."

* * *

Her apartment was small and clean, just as Roy had pictured it. As he guided her inside, he found himself wondering if he had ever been in her apartment before. He was left little time to contemplate that thought as Black Hayate came bounding towards his mother, jumping up at her and pressing both paws against her stomach. She let out a gasp that was far more like a hiss, and staggered a step back into Roy, her hand pressing down on the dog's head. Roy immediately had his arm around her side, to keep her steady.

"Down, _please_, Hayate," she mumbled, though she did pause to pet the dog's head. He yapped cheerfully at his mother, and pranced around the foyer, all the while barking. Once she had regained her breath, she slid her shoes off, easing herself out of Roy's protective grasp.

Quietly, she shuffled towards the kitchen. He had already slid out of his shoes so as not to track the bit of slush into the house, but started over to her immediately. "No, Riza. Bed rest, don't you remember?" His voice held the slightest hint of warning.

She shrugged slightly, "I just want to give Black Hayate his food; Fuery has been feeding him but he doesn't eat as well when he's alone."

"He isn't alone, I'll feed him—you go get into bed. Please, Riza," he added slowly, ink black eye meeting amber. "You're very pale. I'm here to make things easier for you. Just go get into bed. I'll be there in a minute."

Riza frowned somewhat, defeated. A cough started in the back of her throat, and she grimaced, glancing around for her bag, hoping desperately that this fit would last less time than the others. She knew that the doctor had given Roy instructions on how to help her make it through each day without suffocating, but she didn't particularly hold the thought of him pounding gently on her back to loosen the fluid in her chest particularly appealing, not to mention it was painful. She was silent for a few moments, spare the hacking cough. Hayate bounded around her feet, yapping at her, tugging on the hem of her pants, the small dog panicked. Roy saw her wavering on her feet, and gripped her shoulders, taking from the counter a fistful of tissues. Hayate started tugging on the hem of Roy's pants, now desperate for his mother's friend to fix Riza.

"Riza?" Roy's voice was gentle, both hands focused intently on keeping her steady. She didn't speak, until finally her coughing gave way to desperate gasping, and she dropped the bloody tissues into the wastebasket. She pressed both hands against the countertop, struggling to catch her breath.

"Come on, Riza," Roy declared suddenly, gently guiding her out of the kitchen. "You need to get into bed." His voice was level, but he was persistent as his guiding was less guiding and more shoving as he moved her down the hall. "The cold outside didn't help."

She nodded slightly, letting him guide her to the bed. He sat her down, watching her gasp for breath, still concerned. The coughing unnerved him. The doctor had told him specifically what to do—if her coughing got too terrible, and she was still struggling for air afterwards. Now was that case, and he sighed heavily. "I need to pound your back, Riza," he said gently, one hand on her shoulder wearily. He had heard her from the hallway, once. The doctor had come in to do it, and she immediately pleaded with him to leave. So he did. But what he could hear from behind that closed door was coughing, a sound that bordered on vomiting and, shortly thereafter, tears.

Riza tensed, turning to him slightly. "I'm all right," she said quietly, though the lack of support behind her words convinced Roy otherwise. She could speak again, but barely.

"No," he replied sternly. "The doctor said it will help you breathe. Turn around."

Wearily, the woman nodded, getting to her feet. She crossed the room, disappeared, and returned breathless, a bowl at hand. She then slid back to lie face-first on the bed, her head leaning off of the front. Her eyes gazing downwards, she set the bowl beneath her, and closed her eyes. Roy stood beside her, cupping his hands as the doctor had demonstrated.

"Are you ready?"

She nodded, "just do it, Roy," she murmured.

He was as gentle as he could be, almost certain that this hurt her. He could only imagine what it felt like, with her still-healing stomach on the bed and him pounding against her back to try and loosen what was left in her chest. The moment he started, her coughing started as well, violent coughing. Her breathing was ragged, and all he wanted to do was stop, if that would make her comfortable. Her hands were gripping the sheets, eyes tearing up with each hit on her back, entire body tensed.

Five minutes later, she was staring blindly at the wall in front of her, breathing so heavily Roy wondered if he had hurt her.

"Are you all right?"

Riza nodded just slightly, pulling herself back into the bed, so exhausted she could hardly bear to expend the energy. But after a few moments of sitting still, she could feel her breathing return to normal, the ability to take a good, deep breath a welcome feeling. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the headboard, momentarily forgetting his presence until Roy was gently shaking her shoulder.

"Riza, you should get into nightclothes if you're going to sleep. That can't possibly be comfortable to sleep in," he smiled at her proudly, as if satisfied with his words of advice. "I'm going to make you some tea and feed Hayate."

Riza stared at the door, watching him leave, before pulling on her nightclothes and a sweater, burrowing under the covers. It wasn't that she had no tolerance for the cold, it was simply that all the cold did for her now was make her feel more ill.

He was back shortly thereafter, two cups of steaming tea in his hand. He offered one to her, and then sat beside her bed, smiling wearily. Both hands wrapped around the mug, she murmured her thanks, sighing. After a few moments, she took a slow sip of the tea.

"Riza?"

She looked up from her steaming mug, her undivided attention given to him. "Yes, Roy?"

Roy smiled inwardly. For years, he had been _Colonel_, _sir_, _Brigadier General_—never Roy. He had periods of time when he wondered if she even knew his first name, though of course he knew that she did.

"I wanted to ask you something the other day," he said quietly, placing his mug on the nightstand before folding his arms in his lap. His gaze was on a crease in the blankets, but with a resolute nod, he looked directly at her.

"You said to me, when you woke up, that I didn't realize what my leaving had done to you," he paused, swallowing thickly. "I wanted to know what it did do to you. I want you to tell me." Roy's voice dropped slightly, "I want to know why it hurt you. I want to know why, two years later, you still cried about it. I want to know why, so I don't do it again. I…don't want to hurt you, Riza."

Riza's eyes widened, but she kept her mouth shut. In fact, he watched as she shifted her weight uncomfortably, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. "It isn't important, sir."

"It is important!" The anger in his voice startled him. "It is important, because you were so sick, you could've been dying and you knew it, and you still managed to tell me _that_! You were so sick you weren't even sure if I was in the room with you. To a point where you were looking right at me, and didn't know if I was really there. I want to know why. Why can't you just _tell me_? Why can't you just say it?"

Her gaze flitted to the window, eyes filling with tears. "Sir, I…"

"Stop _calling _me _sir_, Riza!"

Both hands balled into fists, and she turned back to him, face a mixture of confusion and frustration, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Because…" she froze, shaking her head vehemently, both hands slamming against the sheets. "It's against the law, Roy!" She was almost screaming, voice shaking, pressing both palms against her face. "Because it's not allowed! Because everything about _us_ jeopardizes everything we've ever worked for! Because it doesn't matter what I think, because my position has always been to push you to the top and protect you, and that's all I want and if that means I can't _just tell you_, as you so put it, then so be it! I'm content with what I've chosen to give. I wouldn't change it for the world. At some point, I accepted that…that it was forbidden. That's the path we've chosen. It's too late to turn back."

His gaze was blank, shocked, startled. Desperate. "Riza," he murmured, one hand fumbling for hers, trying to still the slight trembling. "Riza, look at me. Please." Roy's grip on her hand tightened, "please."

Slowly, she looked up from the bed sheets, meeting his.

"I don't care if it's against the law. At some point, I figured out that I didn't, no, I _can't_ accept that. I can't accept that it's forbidden. I don't care if it's the path we've chosen. I don't care if it's too late to turn back, I'll turn back anyway. There is no such thing as not allowed. I don't want you to push me to the top and protect me. I want you beside me, if I ever make it that far, and I want to protect you the same way you so consistently protect me." His voice was level, but his grip on her hand tightened further.

The woman stared. Finally, she let out a soft sigh, "Roy…"

"Yes, Riza?"

She put her other hand on top of his, "did it really take…this long?" she asked softly, leaning closer to him, eyes wide as saucers.

Roy swallowed, pulling his hand away from hers, pressing both hands against his shoulders, and bringing her closer to him. He nodded slowly. "I…had to almost lose you, Riza."

One of her hands gripped his forearm, not to pull him away, but to touch. He pressed his hand against her cheek, his caress gentle as he moved in closer. Closing his remaining eye, his lips pressed against hers, resting both hands against the back of her neck, pulling her body closer to his, until there was no space left between them.

The kiss was gentle, but burned through them both with raw intensity. It was hungry, desperate, clawing at them both and chaining them together in necessity. Entwined, he broke the kiss off, leaning backwards just slightly to drink in her presence.

"I'm still here," he said softly, resting one hand on her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair from between tired eyes. "I won't leave you."

The smallest smile crossed her features, and she wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, resting her forehead against his shoulder, still wavering with surprise, reeling with the turn of events, puzzled and invigorated and alive in a way she hadn't felt in years. Her free hand reached into the drawer at her nightstand, and she produced a small box. Carefully, she slid the small item into his palm. The silver pocket watch that she had been watching for him, for so long, was resting gently in his hand. He had come back.


End file.
